


Who Would Have Thought

by nerddowell



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Alleyway Fumbling Because These Two Are Classy Guys, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Date, Blowjobs, Double Dating, I love this AU it's my favourite ever, I wrote porn again, I'm Going to Hell, Multi, and on a Sunday as well, cis philippe? from me? can you even believe it, florist Philippe, handjobs, now with extra added lesbians, sorry grandma, tattooist Chevalier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 20:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: Philippe is invited (dragged) on a double date with Liselotte and Maria Theresa. Earlier in the day, he took a flower arrangement order from a handsome stranger.You know exactly where this is going.





	Who Would Have Thought

Philippe is _not_ having a good day at work.

His assistant, Thomas, is running late for the fifth time in two weeks, and with a track record like that, he’s going to have no choice but to fire him soon, which leaves him yet again in the quandary of having to find someone else in this day and age who will at least grudgingly stand around in a hot, humid shop for eight hours a day and put different flowers in different combinations in different vases. The air con is broken (hence the humidity in the shop), and the electrician can’t get out to fix it until Thursday, meaning he has had to resort to keeping his succulents in the yard behind the shop so that they don’t drown. There’s been three mix-ups with orders this week (again, Thomas’ fault), meaning that a wedding bouquet was sent to a funeral and several bunches of white lilies from the wake were sent to a very superstitious bride, who cried down the phone to Philippe for no less than an hour until he promised to personally courier a brand new bouquet to the church, free of charge. And on top of all that, he’s being dragged along to a blind (for him) double-date with his roommate Liselotte and her girlfriend Maria Theresa this evening, with very little time to get home and out of something that isn’t covered in soil and make himself look presentable.

He’s been on blind dates set up by Liselotte before, including several horrendously awkward ones with women of her acquaintance from her W.I. meetings (the younger ones, thankfully, none of the old biddies who pinch his cheeks and exclaim over how handsome he is every time he sees them when they come over for Scrabble nights) until he plucked up the courage to come out to her. The ones after that, with guys from her work or book club, were even worse; they always seemed to be with men who were either not interested in him at all or only interested in one thing, which was nice at the start (he hadn’t had so much sex in years) but now that he’s in his late twenties and wanting to at least start to settle down, he’s not really looking just for hook-ups anymore.

Suffice to say, he’s feeling a little stressed.

He texts Thomas for the fifth time to find out where he is, only to finally get a text back saying ‘cant come in, im sick. sry’. He allows himself a quick yell of frustration, balling his fists and slamming them against the counter, before he shakes it off and texts back telling Thomas not to bother coming in tomorrow unless it was to hand in his notice, because he’s fired anyway. There were probably employment tribunal laws against getting fired by text, but if Thomas had been anything like half-decent in the first place, it never would have had to happen. He mills about the shop floor for a while, checking on stocks of potted begonias and pansies, and the order status of the crates of middle-pink peonies due to arrive this afternoon, but there’s nothing really there to do, leaving him with no option but ruminating over his impending date this evening.

He runs through his list of ex-suitors in his head: Jules, a Sabbatical officer at the university where Liselotte works in the humanities office, who was cute and allowed Philippe to borrow his clothes after he spent the night and couldn’t bear to do the walk of shame in last night’s things; Armie (Armand), from the French department at the same, who had been quite possibly the best shag of Philippe’s life and whom he was possibly even quite sorry to see go; and Antoine, one of the _students_ , for Christ’s sake (he was eighteen and baby-faced, and at nearly twenty-five, Philippe had felt as though he were robbing the cradle), who was lovely to look at but boring as hell. Philippe crosses his fingers for someone who fell somewhere in between Armie and Jules. Not the love of his life, but someone who could at least keep him from boredom for a couple of weeks.

He is just about to put his ‘Back in 10 minutes’ sign up for lunch when a customer comes in, a guy about Philippe’s own age with long hair tied back under a grey knit beanie and a manicured amount of scruff on his top lip and jawline. He has a tattoo sleeve on his right arm of stars and constellations, and there’s another on the side of his neck that looks like the star sign Aries. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, showing off more tattoos over his hand – a tiny swallow near the join of his thumb and forefinger, and the Mars symbol between the knuckles of his thumb – looking around the store apparently for the staff, and Philippe finds himself hiding behind the nook wall to calm himself down.

He steps out and the guy startles before smiling with relief.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi, what can I do for you?’ Philippe asks, crossing over to stand behind the till. He’s still captivated by the artwork covering the man’s body; it’s beautiful, in a way he hadn’t expected – he’s always been taught by his mother and then surrogate father Bontemps that tattoos are something that only ‘rough’ people get, the sort his mother would cross the street to avoid him coming into contact with. But the swirls of blue ink over the guy’s skin, golden in all the places it was visible, as though he spent a lot of time outdoors, are entrancing and seem to move with the muscles beneath them, as though he’s looking at a living canvas of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

He realises the man is speaking and shakes himself out of it, cursing inwardly.

‘I’ve gone and forgotten my sister in law’s birthday and it’s tomorrow. I was wondering if I’d be able to last-minute order something for her. She likes yellow or something equally vulgar, I don’t know.’

‘Yellow’s not a lot to go on,’ Philippe tells him, and shouts at himself inwardly again for being such a hard-ass, ‘but we can probably arrange something, yes. Did you have a price range?’

‘Anything between a tenner and twenty quid,’ the guy says carelessly, shrugging, ‘I don’t care. I’m not her biggest fan.’

 _Clearly_ , Philippe thinks, but he keeps his catty comments to himself and makes a note on a card and passes the man a brochure full of photographs of previous bouquets he’s arranged for people.

‘For a yellow theme, I’d go with sunflowers, chrysanthemums, dahlias, maybe a couple of black-eyed susans, and a sprig here and there of baby’s breath for a slight change in tone.’ He wanders around the shop to grab a few of each and arranges them in his fist to show the customer, who nods.

‘Beautiful. Looks great.’

‘I could put anything in any arrangement and you’d say that, wouldn’t you?’ Philippe says with a smirk, feeling bold, and the guy grins back, not perturbed in the least by the accusatory comment.

‘Yep. I’m afraid I don’t really do flowers. Although if her fashion sense is anything to go by, she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference either, because the only reason she could possibly dress as badly as she does is if she were colourblind,’ the man says with a conspiratorial smile, and Philippe bites his lip against a smile.

‘Well, I’ll try and make up an ‘I don’t like you but it’s your birthday so I’ll pretend’ sort of bouquet for her, then, and you can have it for ten pounds.’

The guy laughs and thanks him, grasping Philippe’s hand to shake. It’s warm, dry and comforting – much unlike Philippe’s own, which is sheened – like the rest of him – in a thin layer of sweat from the heat of the shop, and is probably closer to clammy by now. Still, the guy doesn’t say anything or seem to mind, so Philippe accepts his payment of ten pounds and gets the customer to leave his sister in law’s address on a card before waving him out of the shop and going on his lunch break.  
  


* * *

  
After staring at the inside of his closet in despair for over an hour, Philippe finally gives in and calls Liselotte to ask for advice. His hair is still only semi-dry after his shower, and he can feel the odd trickle of water down the back of his neck, but he’s been staring at the same shirts for forty minutes now and still can’t decide between the light blue (brings out his eyes) and the smoky grey (tight-fitting to show off his chest and arms). Liselotte, who fatefully dated him before realising she was gay (and forcing him to realise that he was, as well), knows his body and what suits him well, so she’s the best person to consult during the current crisis. The phone rings a couple of times before she picks up, and he can hear Maria Teresa chattering away in Spanish in the background.

‘Hello?’

‘Liselotte, it’s me. I think I’m having a panic attack.’

‘Who is it?’ Maria Theresa calls in the background, and Liselotte answers ‘Philippe, he’s having an existential crisis!’ before sighing patiently and turning her attention back to him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I can’t decide what to wear.’ It’s ridiculous to get so stressed out about _clothes_ , of all things, but both he and Liselotte know that what he’s really voicing is the ever-intensifying feeling of _I can’t do this_ and the desperate desire to back out. Liselotte, who has been dealing with his pre-date jitters for several years by now, is a dab hand, and bluntly tells him that he’s being ridiculous.

‘You’re not backing out. I’ve been begging him for weeks, because he’s something different and I really think it’ll work this time, Philippe, much as I regret to say it because the guy is a total arse.’

‘You’re really selling him to me.’

‘No, like I said, you’ll like him. He’s a monumental arse, but he’s the kind of monumental arse that you like, and speaking of arses, darling, you look fabulous. Philippe, you should see Maria Theresa right now. Well, I mean, I suppose you will later, but only after I’ve dragged her to bed.’

‘Stop rubbing my nose in your sex life, it’s depressing.’

‘I don’t want to rub your nose anywhere near my sex life, Philippe,’ Liselotte says, laughing, ‘we did that before and neither of us found it an experience we particularly wanted to repeat. In any case, you’re not backing out, we’ll pick you up in the taxi at eight, and wear the grey, this one’s going to want to see you looking your best.’

He groans, dragging the grey shirt out of his wardrobe and the tightest of his fifteen pairs of black skinny jeans before ending the call to the sounds of Maria Theresa laughing and chastising Liselotte for her lechery on the other end of the phone line.

He wears the grey shirt, as ordered, and pairs it with a burgundy bow tie that he bought after watching the episode of Doctor Who when the twelfth Doctor says ‘bow ties are cool’. On Matt Smith, maybe, but not me, he thinks, and takes it off again. It makes him look about twelve, as though he’s been dressed by his mother for a relative’s wedding and is only missing his cummerbund and buttonhole for maximum humiliation. His blazer – thin and linen, perfect for the summer – completes his outfit and he toes into his shoes at almost the exact moment that Liselotte and Maria Theresa pull up outside in the taxi, Liselotte leaning obnoxiously on the horn whilst his neighbours yell and gesticulate at her through their windows.

He waves a sheepish apology before climbing in, and they drive across London to whichever restaurant tonight’s hellish encounter has been booked for, as Maria Theresa and Liselotte snuggle obnoxiously cutely on the seat next to him and he stares out of the window, people-watching and wondering exactly what Liselotte meant by ‘something different’ in her phone call.

Something different, it turns out when they arrive at the restaurant, is a couple of inches taller than him, long, loose blond hair with gentle curls, and expensively dressed. He has a pleasingly deep voice, introduces himself as Chev, and holds out his hand – his hand with the Mars symbol tattoo on his thumb and a swallow between it and his forefinger. Philippe’s eyes widen at the exact same moment as Chev’s, and they spend a moment staring at each other in mutual recognition before Liselotte coughs pointedly and they all take their seats, the girls picking up their menus to peruse the cocktail options and Philippe still tongue-tied and staring at his date.

‘So. How’s business? Still blooming?’ Chev asks, and Philippe’s tongue unknots as he remembers how to speak. And how to shut his mouth, which has apparently been hanging open for the past eternity.

‘Ye-yes. Going well. And we made up that bouquet for you this afternoon.’

‘Excellent. Sophie will be pleased.’ Chev is dressed in a crisp white shirt, open to the second button, which displays the end of a line of text just beneath his collarbone, and his Aries tattoo on his neck is hidden by the fall of his hair, elegant and shaggy and model-like. His leather jacket is draped over the back of his chair, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, displaying the bottom half of his sleeve tattoo and an arrow on his right inside forearm. He’s so gorgeous Philippe’s brain has forgotten how to function.

‘How about you? What do you do?’

‘I’m an artist,’ Chev says as he picks up the wine menu, glancing cursorily at it before drumming his fingertips on the table. ‘I do tattoos.’

‘Wow,’ Philippe manages. ‘I was, uh, I was admiring yours in the shop earlier.’

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they? I did the arrow myself, back when I was an apprentice and wasn’t allowed to tattoo anyone else yet. That’s probably my oldest one. My sleeve was next, which took about three sessions to complete because I could only sit for a couple of hours at a time, what with work. It’s all of the mythical warrior constellations, so there’s Orion here,’ he points to a spot on his forearm, where Philippe can just about make out what he thinks he recognises as the right shape, ‘and then there’s Hercules up near my shoulder, Perseus pretty much right over my elbow – terribly painful, I wouldn’t recommend it– and then Pegasus down here somewhere.’ He turns his arm to show him, and points to the inside of his arm, just above his wrist. Philippe smiles, and reaches out to touch – ‘May I?’ – before connecting the points with his fingers, following the lines, and feeling the warm skin and gentle pulse beneath his fingertips.

‘Are you into stars, then? I noticed you have Aries on your neck.’

‘Not so much into stars as into the stories behind them. I did classics for the year I actually attended uni – Maria Theresa was my lecturer, actually–’ Maria Theresa looks up from opposite Liselotte and smiles – ‘and they really interested me. I love stuff like that, old stories where nothing’s impossible and the gods are against you and it’s all surviving on your own wit and strength. Of course, beautiful people were favoured the most, so you and I would be fine–’ and he looks at the girls, who are glaring at him, and both he and Philippe burst into giggles like naughty schoolchildren, making Liselotte roll her eyes.

Philippe takes a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down. ‘I used to get read those stories as a child, whenever we went to bed. Louis always wanted Midas, the king that could turn everything he touched into gold, but I liked Achilles and Hercules. The ones who had to prove themselves. The ones who sacrificed.’ He looks down at the table, folding and unfolding his napkin, something to distract his hands and all their nervous energy. The other thing about Achilles, of course, was his lover, Patroclus; a pair of historical male figures who were devoted to each other, even to the death. Philippe often thought that if he ever got a tattoo, he’d get something that represented them. ‘I don’t know, I guess I like the sad ones.’

‘You know, darling, sadness was cathartic in Ancient Greece,’ Chev says. ‘The playwrights used to deliberately make things as sad as possible to let the audience let out all the negative things in their own lives.’ He shrugs and laughs. ‘Kind of like that Hollywood rubbish like _the Notebook_.’

Philippe grins.  
  


* * *

  
The date goes surprisingly well. As predicted by Liselotte, he and Chev get on well, Philippe charmed and even endeared by his flippancy and sarcastic humour, and Chev at least doesn’t seem to need to drink his weight in wine to find Philippe attractive from the way his eyes keep roaming over Philippe’s chest in his tight shirt. More than once, Philippe finds Chev’s gaze lingering on his lips, and he smirks, cocking an eyebrow as he catches him out. Chev doesn’t bat an eyelid, simply purrs, ‘Only admiring the view,’ and Philippe feels himself grow hot under the collar, biting his lip and imagining what Chev looks like under his own, beautifully-made clothes.

They leave Maria Theresa and Liselotte after bundling them into a taxi, because the pair of them have had probably several too many of the strawberry woo woos, and go for a walk along the bank of the Thames. Philippe reaches out to take Chev’s hand tentatively and feels warm fingers interlock with his own, which he takes as a positive sign. He takes it as an even more positive sign when Chev pulls him behind a wall to press him to the brickwork and capture his lips in a kiss that sends flames tickling down Philippe’s spine and makes his cock harden in his jeans. Chev tangles his hands in Philippe’s hair, crushes their hips together, and there’s a matching hardness there; Philippe whimpers and grinds up against him, and one thing leads to another until he’s sucking sloppily at Chev’s mouth and panting as he wanks them both off in his fist.

Chev bites at his lip as he comes, and the spurt of warmth and extra slickness against his cock is what pulls Philippe’s orgasm out of him with a moan, legs trembling, and Chev helps hold him up as he recovers. Philippe licks his hand clean afterwards and Chev watches him with dark, hungry eyes, yanking him back into a kiss the moment Philippe brings his hand away from his mouth. It’s hard, passionate, Chev’s tongue demanding entrance to his mouth and Philippe powerless to resist. He sees a cab pull up a few feet away and flags it down, giving the driver his address between hungry kisses and trying to fight the temptation to jerk Chev off again in the back of the cab.

They make it back to his flat in one piece, where Philippe drags Chev upstairs and peels him out of his clothes, latching his mouth onto every last inch of skin visible, hands wandering over inked flesh as though he can’t decide where he wants to touch most. Chev has a couple of other tattoos beyond the ones Philippe has already seen; there’s a crown on his ribs, and a stag’s head almost covering one thigh, its antlers interwoven with leaves. Philippe makes a note to one day ask him about the meanings of all of his tattoos, but right now he’s too busy trying to get the most important piece of Chev’s anatomy into his mouth.

He sucks determinedly, lapping his tongue against the head and teasing in the slit, and Chev throws his head back, blunt nails scratching red lines down Philippe’s back and over his shoulders. He moans and sucks harder, head bobbing, aware that he’s foregoing technique in the face of sheer arousal. He hopes enthusiasm makes up for the lack of extra bells and whistles, because all he wants is for Chev to come. He’s desperate.

Chev curses, starts moving his hips in short, aborted thrusts, but Philippe whimpers in the back of his throat and grabs his hips, encouraging him to move, and within seconds Chev is holding Philippe’s head still and fucking into his mouth with abandon, panting breathlessly and groaning.

‘Fuck, fuck – you’re so good – such a fucking good – good boy – fuck, you’re m-made for it–’

Philippe nods on another whine, and Chev’s hips stutter as he comes, trembling and clutching desperately at Philippe’s hair before he goes entirely limp and flops back onto the bed, still shivering occasionally with the aftershocks. Philippe swallows, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and climbs up onto the bed with him, still fully clothed. Chev reaches out to massage over his crotch but Philippe blushes fiery red and shakes his head, pushing his hand away. Chev raises his eyebrows incredulously before laughing.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ Philippe mumbles. ‘Kinda gets me off.’

‘‘Kinda’ my arse,’ Chev says with a grin, but he wraps his arm around Philippe’s shoulders and sighs in contentment. ‘But you, darling,’ he says, ‘you are one I’m going to keep around.’  
  


* * *

  
Three years later, Philippe is organising a bunch of pink and red roses, trying to arrange them exactly right for the nervous would-be fiancé ordering them for the night of his proposal, and his forearm is itching terribly. He pulls his sleeve back and inspects the design under the cling film, done earlier that morning on his half-holiday; a Greek helmet with a plume of flowers instead of horsehair, peonies and poppies and all of his other favourites, painstakingly inked on his skin by Chev as he chattered on and on about the new adaptation of the legend of Achilles being brought out in the autumn. He’s already pre-ordered a signed copy, and promises to let Philippe have first read.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he abandons the bouquet to read the incoming text.

_hello gorgeous, hope you’re having fun making lovely things for other people. was just thinking about ordering chinese tonight & do we need any milk? – c x_

He smiles, and fires off a text back. _Milk no, Chinese yes. I love you. x_

He thumbs over the small box in his pocket, flipping it open to run his thumb over the smooth band of silver, and feels his heart flutter in his chest. Three years since their first date, and sixteen months since they moved into their current little flat in the corner of Kensington Green, a tiny place with a tumbledown wooden staircase and a clutter of books on every surface because Philippe is an unapologetic hoarder. Their breakfast bar, always covered in magazines and empty coffee cups and crumbs from pieces of toast or buttered crumpets. Their bed, enormous for the tiny room it’s in, with its silk duvet covers and ridiculously high tog blankets because Philippe is always cold, and dog hair from Henry all over the place. Their home, for the sixteen months they’ve lived there.

He’s left Chev at home today. He’s now running a studio from the shop below their flat, and it’s been going well, despite the original outcry from their posh neighbours saying they didn’t want anything as ‘low-class’ as a tattoo parlour in their nice neighbourhood. Philippe had told them to go away, Chev had said worse, and they’d done exactly as they pleased. Chev has tattooed Philippe twice now, once with the constellation of Gemini and then today with the helmet and flowers. He’d talked about his own tattoos and their meanings, the swallow for loyalty and love, the Aries constellation for his date of birth, the crown for his ambition – ‘Rich and famous, darling, rich and famous!’ – and the Mars symbol for masculinity and his pride in the same-sex side of his bisexuality. Philippe had listened and taken note.

Still, Chev has today off, so no doubt he’ll be lounging around at home on the couch watching the Disney movies he thinks Philippe doesn’t see queued up on their Netflix account with Henry and sketching new designs. Philippe has hung what feels like hundreds of his flash cards all over their flat, so that he can never walk into a room without seeing some of Chev’s artwork and reminding himself how fortunate he is. And he feels fortunate. Chev loves him, despite the blazing rows they can have every so often – which always end up making Henry bark and run in circles around them as though he’s herding particularly angry sheep, which always breaks the tension and has them laughing within minutes – and he’s found the love of his life in return. On a blind date, when he was sure it wouldn’t _ever_ happen.

He closes the ring box and smiles to himself. The tattooist and the florist. Who would have thought?


End file.
